Once Upon A Time
by Milk and Glass
Summary: A Mark-centric fic, one of my character sketches. Mark/Addison relationship throughout the years. Revamped: now there are 3 childhood chapters, 3 high school chapters, and 3 adult chapters, by popular demand. : Thanks for reading!
1. Chapter 1

Every story takes the path of one of the seven original plots

Every story takes the path of one of the seven original plots. The heroine is from a rich family; she marries a prince; they live happily ever after in a beautiful castle. Her family doesn't approve of his. She's poor and he's rich. She's rich and he's poor. Whatever the plot may be, it's certain that the story will be loved. We love to hear different versions of the same story. It can deviate from the norm so much that the plot isn't recognizable, but as long as it has a happy ending, it'll be sure to be read again.

This time, the story won't follow one of the seven original plots. This time, the story will follow the plot of a couple who never really worked well together, but ignited passion, all the same. This time, the story won't be told from the princess's point of view; no, rather, it will be told from the point of view of the prince. This time, the ending of the story will be left up to you.

But like all stories, happy or sad, long or short, old or modern, the same words will be used to begin the tale, for better or for worse.

Once upon a time . . .

_All the king's horses and all the king's men  
Couldn't put us back together again.  
We huffed and we puffed,  
And we blew this house down.  
We tried. Yeah, we tried._

_When did the sun stop shining?  
When did we turn into two divided?  
I guess we will never really know why,  
But I remember once upon a time._

He lives in a house on the hill. From a distance, it's got gingerbread edging; the sun hits the whitewash in a gleaming sort of way. It's tall and the roof is pointed; it's the perfect Queen Anne, nestled in the rolling green hills of Connecticut, dark and picturesque against the painted summer sky.

When you get closer, you can take in all the careful landscaping and the arbors and the wrought-iron bench encircling the weeping willow in the front drive. You might notice the American flag on the pole above the front door; the leaded glass windows might catch your eye. And if you didn't know better, you'd think that this was a show home, a home meant for people who are in love with the lighter side of history. In that case, you'd be right – it is a home meant to impress other people.

But what you wouldn't realize is that it's a family home, too. Mark Samuel Sloan is the only child of independently-wealthy parents. Their only job seems to be to discuss other people in the breakfast room at the back of the mansion. And their seven-year-old son attends private school; he rarely sees his parents at all.

WASP children are often stereotyped as being unloved. That isn't the case here. However, it's not really that he's neglected more that he's just overlooked. Like he's a fixture of having a rich lifestyle, a son accessory thrown in to ensure that the family home passes down through the right gender – that the family name is safely preserved for another generation.

So, they're not totally aware of him, although they care about him very, very much. He's used to being in the background; to being raised by nannies who were the ones who got him from his crib when he cried; bathed him and cuddled him at night during a thunderstorm, and made his favourite meals. He's used to them parting his dark, almost-black hair on the side and taming it down for private school; to them teaching him how to tie a proper Windsor knot in his uniform tie, and adjusting his sweater so that he won't get in trouble for looking rumpled.

He's introspective and quiet at home. He spends time in his room, building model ships and dreaming of the day his dad might take a minute to tell him the names of the decks and the parts of the boat. He keeps out of his parents' way, sitting quietly at dinner, staring at his plate while they argue about stock prices. No one thinks to ask him any questions about school. No one thinks to make sure he has enough milk or gets any dessert. When the meal ends, he sneaks back to his room, does his homework, and tucks himself into bed.

At eight years old, you shouldn't have to think about making sure the windows are shut before going to sleep so that the rain doesn't come in off the sea. You shouldn't have to shiver under a thin blanket because the nanny has the night off and no one thinks to come and tuck a warm blanket around you.

It's no wonder that Mark is known as one of the snotty rich kids in his class. It's no wonder that he doesn't have many friends.

It's no wonder that when he dreams – if he dreams – he dreams of a home more like his best friend, Derek Shepherd, gets to have.

Sometimes the poorest kids live in crystal palaces.

/

Mark kicks at the gravel and sighs impatiently. "Are you going to hurry up, or what?"

Derek Shepherd is slightly smaller and definitely less mature, but he's Mark's best friend, anyway. He is because he's a boy and he's not adverse to trying to climb trees or playing in the mud, even though he's thinner and paler than Mark. He's also not very brave, which makes him the perfect best friend for Mark, who's got enough courage for his whole third-grade class.

"I'm coming. You could slow down," Derek whines, and Mark smirks, but he adjusts his stride so that Derek can catch up. Behind the boys, Derek's four sisters are picking their way over the wormy sidewalks, trying not to ruin their shoes. The day is rainy; it's overcast and foggy, and Mark kicks moodily at a rock.

"I'm so tired of waiting for you. You're so whiny," he suddenly lashes out, and Derek's face freezes, and then crumples a little bit. Immediately, Mark feels bad.

"I'm kidding, jeez, can't you take a joke?" he apologizes gruffly, and Derek's blue eyes behind his round glasses brighten. They trudge into the schoolyard, and Mark spies a bunch of fourth-grade boys splashing in the mud. Knowing how Derek feels about getting his clothes wet, Mark pushes him behind, forgetting to take care to be gentle, but he doesn't escape the notice of the boys.

"Sloan, when are you going to lose the baby?" The biggest one straightens, the bottom of his navy slacks liberally spattered. Mark simply rolls his eyes and keeps going, keeping Derek behind him. What he fails to realize, though, is that Derek's shoes are untied.

When the smaller boy trips, the bigger boys don't wait. They push his face into the mud, laughing as his glasses crack and his jacket gets slathered in mud. Mark doesn't stop to think. He hauls off and punches the one holding Derek down. Immediately, the older boy bursts into tears as his nose starts to spurt blood, and the second fourth-grader, standing behind him, goes for Mark.

"Fuck off!" Mark shouts, just before the boy can punch him, and immediately, all the children in the surrounding area gasp. Out of the crowd, a redhead rushes forward.

"I'm telling on you, Mark Sloan! That word is bad!" Her blue eyes snap and she stamps a small foot angrily. "And I'm telling on you, John Bolton, for hurting Derek Shepherd!" With a gentler hand, she pulls Derek out of the mud. Derek's face is covered except for the tearstains leaving clean tracks on his cheeks.

Mark straightens and then groans. "Addison Montgomery . . ."

"What?" She stands in front of him, taller than the other girls, flaming hair cascading down her back when every other girl's hair is braided. Her shoes are untied. Her jacket is unbuttoned. Mark knows her because they're in the same class and in the same neighbourhood, too. He's been forced to play with her many a time, and he's hated every second of it.

"Why can't you just mind your own business? You're always telling. I'm telling!" He finishes, mocking her girlish voice. "Just go away. This is none of your business."

"Yeah? Well, you didn't seem to be doing anything, Mark. You let Derek get beat up and you just stood there."

Derek frowns in Mark's direction. "He punched Steve Jones."

"Yeah. Boys," Addison spits, wiping the mud from Derek's face with her coat sleeve. Almost immediately, the mud spreads down the side of her jacket when she drops her arm, and Mark can't help but smile.

"You're all dirty, you know. Some girl," he teases, picking up his backpack. "Well, aren't you going to go tell?" He makes a face at her and she makes one right back.

"I'm going to tell on them," she says, pointing at the fourth-grade boys, who are already making their way up to the school. "I won't tell on you, but I want something if I don't."

"I don't have any money," Mark says immediately, and Derek shakes his head. "I don't either."

"That's not what I want," Addison scoffs, tossing her red hair. "I need a favour from you." She points at Mark.

Mark looks resigned. "What do you want? This better not be some stupid girly thing," he warns.

She makes a face back at him. "I need a prince for our game." She jerks a thumb back at the girls behind her. "We're playing princesses and I need a prince."

Mark immediately shakes his head. "I'm not playing a stupid girly game."

"I'm not asking you to!" Addison shoots back. "I just need you for one thing. And then you can do whatever you want."

Mark considers for a moment. He's already been in trouble three times this year. If he gets in trouble again, he'll lose all his recesses, including lunch. He frowns and shakes his head slowly. "I don't know, Addison."

"Fine, I'll tell, then," she replies airily, and swings her hair behind her shoulders. "I don't need a boy to do it. It'd just be better if I had one."

Mark sighs and looks around. Only Derek is standing beside him, looking forlorn despite his cleaned-up face. "Fine. But it'll be one recess and that's it. And if you tell anyone, I'll tell everyone that you pushed Derek in the mud."

"Fine, it's a deal," she replies, and extends a muddy hand. Mark shakes it, and is surprised at its warmth and strength.

/

"Let me guess. You need me to rescue you from something, am I right?" Mark is leaning up against a tree, staring at Addison and her girlfriends behind the big school. They're all wearing a dress-up crown, but only Addison's is slightly askew on her head.

"No." Addison shoots him a glare. "Not all princesses need rescuing, you know."

"Well, they do in all the stories I've read."

"Well, maybe you're not reading the right stories," she replies. "In _Twelfth Night_, Violet dresses up like a man to get what she wants."

"_Twelfth Night_?"

"Shakespeare, stupid." Addison rolls her eyes and Mark rolls them back. "I don't read."

"Obviously." She turns her back and fiddles with the cape on another girl's shoulders for a moment, then turns back. "Well, maybe Violet really isn't a princess. But anyway, she's still not the type of girl that needs rescuing. And I'm not, either."

"Then what do you want me here for?" Mark is utterly confused. "You wanted a prince."

Addison finishes fiddling and smiles. "You're going to marry Jessica." She points at the smallest, blondest of the little girls, who gives him a shy smile. Mark groans.

"I knew I'd have to marry SOMEBODY."

"So? You want me to tell? I can, you know," Addison replies bossily, and then grabs his hand. "Here, hold her hand. We're starting the wedding now."

"I don't want to hold her hand."

"Fine, don't. I'll talk to Mrs. Smith after recess."

"Fine!" He grumbles and takes Jessica's hand, which is slightly sticky. Addison clears her throat importantly.

"We are gathered here today to marry the prince and the princess together. You may now kiss the bride."

"Wait!" Mark drops Jessica's hand. "You didn't say anything about any kissing, Addison!"

"It's not a real kiss, stupid. Just kiss her hand."

Mark grimaces, but Addison taps her foot and he finally drops a peck on Jessica's hand. All the girls giggle and Mark blushes. "Okay, okay, am I finished now?"

"No." Addison plucks the wedding tiara from Jessica's hair and plonks it on the next girl's head. "You're going to marry Tara and Kristen, too."

"What?!"

"Well, if you don't want to . . ." Addison suddenly gives him a smile and he lowers his eyes.

"Fine. But after this, I'm done."

They go through the ritual again two more times, stopping once when a group of boys pass and Mark has to hide behind the stand of trees until they pass. As bossy as Addison is, she isn't heartless.

When the "ceremonies" are finished, Mark immediately drops the last girl's hand. "Okay, I'm done now, right? I'm done being your prince?"

Addison is about to nod, but little Jessica speaks up. "Addie, it's your turn to get married!"

Immediately, both Addison and Mark blush, and Addison shakes her head. "Shut up," she hisses, but Mark suddenly grins.

"Well, may as well do one more," he says, winking at Addison in a way that will be his trademark when he becomes a man. Addison unwillingly takes his hand, and the "ceremony" is performed. When it comes time to kiss Addison's hand, though, Mark is struck by a feeling of revenge, and quick as a wink, he kisses her cheek instead.

"EWW!" The girls' shrieks nearly blow his eardrums, but Addison simply blushes and nonchalantly wipes her cheek off.

"Now we're even?" He asks her.

"Yeah. We're even." And she shoots him a smile that stays with him for the rest of the day.

/

They're fighting again, and it's not even that it's abusive, but it is gin-soaked and he just can't deal with it. Because he's not feeling well and because he's tired, and the wind is cold and he can't reach the outside of the casements to close them, he huddles in bed and swallows against the rising sore throat. And he suddenly gets tired of it; having to be brave and big and emotionless, and he becomes a very tired, very sick little boy who just wants someone to cuddle him.

When he makes his way down the road, no one stops to wonder why there's a school-aged child picking his way over the sidewalk and puddles. No one pulls over; no one bothers him at all. And he's a completely different child from the cocky boy in the schoolyard; from the teasing prince in Addison's game.

But he's recognizable to Derek's mother, who opens the door to the shivering little white-faced figure. And she doesn't say anything; she just picks him up in her arms, despite the fact that he's taller than Derek and about ten pounds heavier, and brings him into the warmth.

When he's snuggled down in the bed beside Derek, given Tylenol for his fever, and tucked in carefully, he finally relaxes, and mouths the words he'd like to say to someone else.

"Thanks, Mom."


	2. Chapter 2

His fever's up and his cough is bad; Derek's mother leans over his bed, strokes back the damp dark hair

His fever's up and his cough is bad; Derek's mother leans over his bed, strokes back the damp dark hair. He never complains. No matter how bad it is, he never complains.

Sometimes, however, he cries.

"Shh, baby." Her hands feel so cool on his forehead. He often thought, in later years, that Derek's mom would have been an excellent nurse. She worked days down at the grocery store, living off that and Derek's dad's life insurance, trying to support her five children on the little income she had, but she was, and still is, better than any nurse when it comes to bedside care.

Derek sleeps beside him in the bed; his glasses sit askew on the nightstand; his hand is thrown carelessly up against the maple headboard. And yet, he doesn't stir as Mark starts to shiver from the height of the fever or feels sick to his stomach, heaving forward as Mrs. Shepherd holds a basin under his chin. He's careful not to get any on the coverlet, but when he's finished and Derek's mother wipes his mouth and gives him a glass of water to rinse his mouth with, he starts to cry.

"I'm sorry." His voice has a rough little-boy quality to it; it's always strident – always clear. But tonight it breaks a little; it cracks when he sniffles and tries to keep back the sobs – tries not to let anyone see him cry. He's so brave, this little boy. He's such a good little boy. And he's not hers, but she's proud anyway.

When he drifts off to sleep finally, his cheeks flushed in the nightlight and the shivering quelled for the time being, she stays awhile just to watch them sleep.

She's always had two sons. It's been that way since Mark met Derek in kindergarten.

/

Mark trudges in the mud again, kicking up plumes of milk chocolate-coloured water. A few children walking with him hiss and squeal and quickly scatter in front of him. For good measure, he coughs, and then spits on the ground, emulating what he's seen from the older boys. He hears a disgusted noise from behind.

"That's disgusting, Mark Sloan."

"Addison Montgomery." Mark's voice is completely deadpan. "Once again, you can't go away and mind your own business!"

"Once again, you're being disgusting. Well, it doesn't surprise me!"

Mark rolls his eyes, but he casts a look at her out of the corner of his eye and is amused to see that her flaming red hair is coming unbraided; her skirt is slightly askew on her hips and her tights are wrinkled at the ankles. Whenever he remembers her as a child, Mark remembers that image. Addison didn't learn to be put together 24/7 until she was an adult.

"So, your parents are having mine over for a Christmas party?" Addison's already on another wavelength, her quick mind jumping from topic to topic. Mark blinks, but nods.

"Yeah, tomorrow night."

"Well, I hope they don't bring me." She sticks her tongue out at him, and he grins.

"I hope they do. I'll show you my fake snakes and spiders." He looks proud, expecting her to squeal in disgust. However, her face lights up.

"Cool! Can I bring my fake tarantulas?"

"Girls don't play with fake bugs!"

"Well, this girl does," says Addison, tossing her red braids. "Just thought you'd want to see my cool stuff."

Mark looks at her in astonishment, and then breaks into a smile.

"Sure, bring them over. I can't wait to see them."

"Great!" She scampers ahead, tripping slightly over her untied shoelace, and shoots him a coy look over her shoulder.

Once a flirt, always a flirt, Mark will think, remembering this day years later.

/

When the Montgomerys arrive the next night, each parent tightly holds the hand of a very disgruntled-looking Addison. She has her hair in a coronet; she's wearing a rich red velvet dress and tights with red wreaths printed on them, patent leather Mary Janes and a fluffy white fur coat. And she looks absolutely disgusted with the whole thing.

Mark grins. He's never seen Addison look this perfect. It's like looking at a different girl. "Nice dress," he can't help saying, and isn't surprised when she scowls at him.

"Shut up."

"Addison!" Mrs. Montgomery sounds shocked, but Mark just laughs and falls in beside his mother and father.

Pleasantries are exchanged; Addison grips a cup of weak tea, lots of milk, and three teaspoons of sugar as Mark eats a chocolate cookie. The parents' conversation is boring. Mark gently kicks at the wooden legs of the antique chair he's perched on, but immediately stops at a glare from his father. He sighs heavily and fidgets with the cuffs of his white shirt, not so different from his school uniform, and just as uncomfortable. He longs to be wearing a pair of sweats and a T-shirt, and running cars up and down the servants' staircase railing.

Addison keeps fidgeting, as well. Mrs. Montgomery quells her by putting a hand gently on her daughter's knee, but Addison doesn't take the hint. By the time the cup of tea is finished and Mark is brushing crumbs onto the white carpet (and subsequently ignoring his mother's glares on that count), Addison is positively a-wriggle with impatience.

"Addison, will you stop squirming!"

"But I have to go to the bathroom!" Addison blurts, and then turns bright red. "Oops."

Mark laughs and is promptly kicked under the coffee table by a patent-leather shoe. "Ouch!"

"Mark, take Addison to the bathroom. And . . . go and play, or something." Mark's mother is at her wits' end with these two unruly children with too much energy.

"Fine!" Mark jumps up and extends a hand to Addie. "Let's go."

Despite the fact that girls and boys "don't hold hands because of cooties", Addison grabs Mark's sticky palm in a tight grasp. Once they get clear of the door, she moans a little bit. "Hurry up and show me where the bathroom is. I have to pee so badly."

"Jeez, keep your pants on. It's over there."

When she comes out, looking relieved, Mark beckons to her. "Come on, let's get out of here. This is boring."

"Where are we going to go?"

"I'll get my toys and we can play in the den."

"All right!" She tugs on her black purse and a collection of spiders, luridly coloured, falls out onto the parquet floor. Mark's eyes widen.

"You weren't kidding! You actually do have cool toys!"

She tosses her hair, red tendrils coming loose to frame her small heart-shaped face. "I told you. Jeez, boys don't know anything."

"Neither do girls."

"Hurry up and get your toys. I don't want to stand here all day."

"Fine! Hold your horses!"

Mark scampers up the stairs in the foyer and Addison turns her attention to the den across the hall. Squarely set against the wall with plenty of room under the cathedral, sky-lit ceilings is a glittering Christmas tree.

If Addison had been the kind of girl that knew to look, but not touch, she would have sat quietly on the stairs and waited for Mark to come back down. If she had been the kind of girl to remember to keep her clothes nice, or to keep track of all of her small belongings instead of losing things down the vents and in the crevices under her bed, she would have left the Christmas tree alone.

But Addison was not this kind of little girl, and what's more, she had no impulse control. So, instead of sitting quietly and waiting for Mark, she decides to have a closer look at the Christmas tree.

Hung over with silver icicles, glittering candle-lights, delicate glass ornaments and silver garlands, the tree is truly one of the most beautiful things Addison has ever seen. And because she doesn't know to keep her hands to herself, she decides that a crystal angel close to the top of the seven-foot mammoth blue spruce needs a closer look.

Unfortunately, at this point of the story, it would be safe to say that Addison Montgomery is, in fact, a very silly little girl. Because scaling a tree is not something that most little girls of her age would ever think of doing. It's not something that even Mark Sloan, a reckless, happy-go-lucky, careless boy would do. But Addison is drawn to shiny things. In this case, it's a crystal angel. In later life, it will be diamonds of any shape, kind and colour, set in white gold.

The tree shakes a bit under her weight, but she's able to hold on just fine and climb the sturdier branches, close to the top. And the angel is beautiful – it's glittering with a ruby-red rose clasped in tiny crystal hands. Addison has had her look – even she knows she's not supposed to be on the tree. So, the smart thing would be to climb down quietly and wait for Mark, who is detained upstairs, looking for his toys, which he unfortunately misplaced the last time he cleaned his room.

But Addison isn't satisfied with a look – and here's where she makes her mistake. Precariously perched on the tree, she's able to keep her balance and the core balance of the spruce, which is weighted by an iron Christmas tree stand. However, when she reaches out with her right hand to take the angel into her hand, she upsets the balance and before she can even blink, the whole thing goes over with a resounding, magnificent, roaring crash.

Amid the broken ornaments and darkened lights; sitting in the sappy, prickly blue spruce needles, Addison is so surprised for a moment that she doesn't register what exactly she's done. However, Mark Sloan, standing at the door of the den, certainly does. His mouth is hanging so far open that Addison wonders briefly if he'll ever get it closed again.

"WHAT DID YOU DO?!"

Mark's words are eclipsed by the stampeding of about three maids, all drawing a collective gasp as they view the disheveled little girl amid the Christmassy glittering mess. And then collectively, they all turn and leave in the direction of the drawing room, where both Addison's and Mark's parents sit, oblivious.

Addison does the only thing appropriate for the situation. Covering her white face with her cut-up little hands, she bursts into tears.

Mark's face softens. As much as Addison Montgomery IS an annoying little girl who causes trouble wherever she goes, he doesn't want her to get into too much trouble and have to go home before he can gloat about his fake bugs. So instead of waiting for the storm to descend, he walks gingerly, sock-footed, into the broken glass and plops down right beside her.

"When they ask you what happened, don't say anything," he warns, his face earnest. "Just shut up and let me talk."

She nods, barely, her hair coming down around her shoulders. Without thinking, Mark brushes a few spruce needles out of the silky redness, and puts an arm around her shoulders.

"MARK SLOAN!" Mark's dad's face is ashen. "What in Christ's name is going on here?!"

Addison's mother rushes forward. "Oh, Addie, baby, are you all right?"

Addison is mostly over her tears, and disentangles herself from her mother's arms. "I'm fine, Mommy."

"I did it," said Mark, his face reddening to about the colour of Addison's hair. "I wanted to see . . . the star, more closely, so I climbed the tree. And it fell over."

"You climbed the tree?" All four parents repeat in unison, and Mark's mother's face falls. "Oh, Mark."

"I'm sorry?" Mark offers with his trademark grin, and Mr. Sloan shakes his head.

"Young man, you and I will have a meeting in my office in about two hours."

"Yes, sir." Mark's voice doesn't tremble, but he knows what will happen. His bottom stings in sick apprehension. But, being as it was an accident, he knows he'll get off easily.

"Addison, we're going home," announces Mrs. Montgomery, but Mrs. Sloan shakes her head.

"No, no. The children are fine. I'll have one of the maids watch them and we can continue our discussion."

Mrs. Montgomery is unsure, but she's eventually talked around. The kids are taken out to the kitchen, where they're set up at the table with colouring books and crayons. Both roll their eyes – it's so first grade – but they sit quietly under the gaze of the maid.

When she leaves to take out the trash and change the laundry, Mark sighs. "This is so boring."

"I know." Addison kicks her shoes against the kitchen chair. "And I'm hungry."

Mark hops up and goes to the fridge. "You know, I've never been able to figure out where my parents keep all the food." He peers in. "All there is in here is some milk and a box of bean sprouts."

"Bean sprouts?" Addison looks properly repulsed, but she reaches into the cold box. "I'll try then, I guess. But they look sort of gross."

"I think they are."

The two sit under the table, lest the maid comes back, and munch quietly. Mark looks up, trying to keep the look of disgust off his face.

"Well, what do you think?"

Addison swallows, then sticks out her tongue, coloured green from the sprouts. "Ew."

"Yeah." Mark kicks the box out from under the table, where it slides gently across the tiled floor, bumping into the cupboard.

"Hey." When Mark looks back up, he meets Addison's blue eyes squarely. She clears her throat.

"So, why'd you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Take the blame. I wrecked your tree." She picks a little at the quickly-scabbing-over cuts on her hands, and Mark sort of can't stand it, so he puts a hand over hers.

"I don't know. I didn't want to see you cry," he mumbles, and she grins a little. Quick as a flash, she kisses him on the cheek, but he doesn't shy away.

Instead, he keeps holding her hand.

"Thanks, Mark."

"You're welcome, Addie."


	3. Chapter 3

He's shivering, again

He's shivering, again. The window's cracked and the wind is cold, blowing the curtains around and chilling him to the core, even though he has three blankets on. Mark accidentally cracked it with his fake sword while playing two days ago, and is too afraid to tell his father. The Christmas tree episode cost him pretty big. He's still got bruises.

Christmas came and went without much ceremony. His parents had Christmas parties; he opened presents with them for an hour on Christmas morning under the salvaged tree and by the crackling fire, and then played with Matchbox cars on the stairs by the servants' entrance while the smell of turkey and cranberries and stuffing wafted out of the kitchen. His extended family came over – he played outside under the falling stars of the snow and sledded wildly on the hills.

But now, it's the day before winter break ends and he's cold and tired and disillusioned. Christmas is always such a big deal to a child and it's a letdown when it's finally over. And his dreams are troubled – he's afraid of what will come next.

So, despite the snow – despite the cold, he finds himself sneaking out of bed and into his boots and winter coat. He's lost one of his mittens and he can't find his hat, but he sneaks out of the house anyway and down the street.

The door is always open. And Mrs. Shepherd, no matter how concerned she is when she picks up the phone to call up to the big house on the hill, always picks him up and cuddles him close, tucking him down beside the sleeping Derek and kissing his windburned cheeks.

"You need to wear a scarf, sweetheart," she mutters to him, like she would to any of her other children, but Mark looks up at her with his serious blue eyes and nods.

"I'll remember next time."

She runs a hand over her own son's hair and catches Mark's eye. And just because – because he's a little boy despite his maturity – she gives him an extra kiss on the cheek and makes sure he's covered warmly.

When he drifts off to sleep, he's never been so comfortable.

/

The next morning is a blur of trying to get ready and trying to hide his transgression. It's disgusting and humiliating, and what's worse, it wasn't even in his own bed. Mark's not a bedwetter, but all little children have accidents and despite his maturity, he's only eight years old. He buries the evidence under the blankets, balled up in the middle of the mattress, while Derek is in the bathroom brushing his teeth.

On the way to school, he's meaner than usual to Derek, who's whining that his mittens are wet.

"Shut up, Derek," he mutters, his mood not lifted by the fact that Addison, in her chubby red coat and white hat and mittens, is busy licking at a handful of clean snow and grinning at him.

"Hey, Mark! Catch this!" she shouts, and hurls the snow at him, catching the side of his ear. He growls and immediately catches up a handful to retaliate, but then remembers that she's a girl, and drops the snow. Instead, he sticks his tongue out at her.

"You throw like a girl."

"I am a girl, stupid," she retorts, and kicks up plumes of snow with her shining black boots. They sparkle in the weak winter sunshine, and despite himself, Mark grins.

"I like that hat. It makes your hair less carroty."

"It's not carroty," she mutters, always sensitive about her hair. They walk beside each other and quick as a flash, she snatches his hat from his head with a wicked grin.

"At least mine is better than yours!" she calls, running in the other direction, waving his grey toque like a banner and flashing her perfect teeth. In a mixture of annoyance and fondness, he runs after her, catching her around the waist and bringing her to the ground in a flurry of snow and laughter.

He pins her down with his body and grabs his hat from her with a smile. "Never try and outrun a boy," he says with a smirk, and she sticks her tongue out at him again.

"Yeah, right." And she's so beautiful there, in the snow with her hair fanned out around her and her cheeks red from the cold, that he suddenly kisses her lips, quickly and without thinking.

Instead of shrieking, though, she just smiles, and when he lets her up, she takes his hand until they're within sight of the group again.

/

Mark's not having a good day.

First, he fails a pop quiz on fractions, because no one made him do his homework over winter break and he's completely lost on what to do with numerators and denominators. He knows that his parents won't care, but there's something about watching Derek receive a gold star on his paper that makes his insides turn, just because the next time he's at the Shepherd house, he'll have to see that paper on the refrigerator, and know that Derek was kissed and congratulated, when his parents can't be bothered to spend five minutes asking him about school, whether he fails or succeeds, or whether he even passes to the next grade.

Secondly, he loses his lunch money that his parents always make sure that he has enough of. Despite the fact that they don't care if he makes it to school or not (not so much they don't care as they just assume he'll get there without their attention), his father makes sure his coat pocket is stuffed with extra change and dollar bills for the times that he goes to Derek's for the night. And in the tussle with Addison, he's somehow lost all but twenty-five cents of it. It's enough for a chocolate milk, but it does nothing to quell the hunger that's tearing at his young insides. Derek offers him an apple, but he refuses. For some reason, he hates Derek today.

Maybe it's that reason that he decides to pick a fight with him at lunchtime.

They're standing in the snowy field, and Mark is angrily kicking at the snow, when Derek throws an icy red ball at him. "Here, Mark, catch!"

It bounces into Mark's gut and off across the snow. Mark turns around with a snarl. "What are you DOING?!"

Derek looks a little frightened. "Trying to play catch?"

"Well, learn to throw!" snaps Mark; even though it was his own fault that he missed the ball. He picks it up easily in one hand and snaps it at Derek, catching him in the face. Although he feels a sharp pang of regret the minute Derek's face crumples in pain, another part of him feels a sense of sick triumph as he runs over to him.

"Sorry about that, buddy, are you okay?" Mark's voice is gruff, but he takes his mitten and gently wipes the snow from Derek's face and helps him get up off the snow. Derek, however, has lost his patience, and he stands, his curly hair beaded with ice, his cheeks red and his blue eyes snapping behind smeared wet glasses.

"You're an ASSHOLE!" It's rare that Derek swears, and Mark's eyebrows immediately shoot up. The other boys they're playing with start to crowd around the two.

"You meant to do that! You did that on purpose!" Derek's totally lost control of himself, and he stands, fists clenched, his whole body trembling. "You wanted to see me get hurt!"

"Derek, I didn't mean to – calm down. Jeez." Mark tries to keep his voice reasonable, but Derek's having none of it. He hauls off and punches Mark in the nose. Because Mark's not expecting it, the punch catches him off guard and he falls backwards into the snow, feeling the pain spread from his nose all over his face. Tears spring to his eyes and it takes every ounce of strength he has not to retaliate and give Derek the worst black eye he's ever seen.

Derek stands over him, his chest heaving, his glasses catching the weak winter light. "You're not a very good friend. You come over every night and I never get any sleep because of your crying. Just like a little girl," he spits, kicking a little snow onto Mark's prone form. By now, a crowd has grown around the two boys, and Mark's face is flaming red.

"He comes over to your house every night?" asks one of the boys, and Derek turns to him, nodding eagerly, glad to have an ally.

"Not only that, he CRIES. And he wets the bed," Derek announces, knowing even in that moment that he's gone too far.

Mark's face turns totally white. In his haste to get up, he ends up slipping on the snow and falls onto his back, knocking the wind out of himself and causing the tears that have gathered in his eyes to slip down his windburned cheeks. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices the crowd, but all he can hear is the roar of laughter as the whole assembly ends up having a laugh at his expense. Big, tough Mark, a bedwetter. It's almost too funny to be borne.

Eventually, he ends up getting away, running as if a horde of wolves are after him, around the school and behind the boiler, hiding in the warm, dry space between the wall and the metal heater. There, he stops being the tough guy that's become his reputation. He stops being brave. Instead, he just cries, like the child he is – like the little boy he's never allowed to be.

And that's how Addison finds him.

At first, she says nothing. She simply scoots in beside him, and they sit on the dirt and huddle together for warmth, their feet up against the boiler, the soles of their boots getting sticky from the heat, and she takes his hand in her own little sticky one, and they're just two children, two neglected little rich kids taking comfort from each other. Mark's tears slow down at the thought of her beside him. He's not as sad when there's someone to stand beside him.

Moments pass, and then Addison says, thoughtfully, "I thought I was the only one."

"The only one what?" His voice is rough and full of tears still, and he tries to clear his throat, but she ignores that and goes on.

"I thought I was the only one who wets the bed." Her voice is light, clear, and her grip tightens on his hand as she goes on. "It doesn't happen a lot, but it does every so often, you know?"

"Yeah." And he does. "It only happened because I was cold last night. I don't do it every night. I'm not a baby."

"No, of course not. Derek's a baby."

They laugh a little, but then Mark looks down at his boots. "He doesn't wet the bed, though."

"So? So what?" Addison heaves herself up a little bit on the wall and stares into Mark's eyes with her serious blue ones. "Who cares? He wouldn't play wedding with me, or take the blame for a Christmas tree falling down, or even make sure I got the last piece of Christmas cake last week. So who cares?"

Mark tries to smile, but his lips tremble and Addison suddenly throws her arms around his neck to try to get him to stop being so upset. He, shocked, moves back from her, but ends up wrapping his arms around her tiny body and giving her a hug back.

When they leave the area behind the boiler, the backs of their coats are muddy and the soles of their boots are a little thinner, but their hands are firmly clasped. When Mark's classmates laugh at him, he simply laughs with them and in another week, it's blown over.

/

It's not a case of the prince and princess live happily ever after in this story. It's not a case of nothing bad ever happens again, just because a shaft of understanding was passed between two children with a remarkably similar background, mindset, and personality.

She's stronger than he thinks. He's weaker than she realizes. And in that way, they complement each other; the sneakiness and fighting completing the rare moments of understanding, tenderness, and gentleness that two eight-year-olds are somehow capable of sharing.

It's not the end of the story. It's only the end of one era in a long history to come.


End file.
